I hit send, then waited. Too long. Like I was eighteen again, waiting for a girl to text back, pretending I didn't care while checking every five seconds. Despite my best hopes, the message stayed unread.
I exhaled, the only sound in the room. It didn't matter. Except it did. Thisthing between us—whatever the hell it was—was only going to get messier. But caring? That ship had fucking sailed.
The lightsof Jeddah smeared across my visor like streaks of neon, but I didn't blink. Thirty-one laps down and my gloves were soaked, my jaw locked, my pulse so loud I could barely hear my own engine.
But I saw him. Car 17. Fraser just ahead of me. Less than a second now. He'd been in my sights for too long.
"Gap to Fraser, one point one. He's managing brake temps and letting the engine cool. This is your shot." My engineer's voice came through clear but calm. As if this wasn't everything to me.
Brake temps. Overheating. He was fighting his car, not me. That was all I needed.
I leaned into the next corner, chased the grip, and felt the tires bite. My hands were steady, but I was already overtaking him in my head. I'd been trailing him since lap twenty-five, waiting, matching pace. Every tenth he stole, I wrenched back.
Now it was my turn.
“Use the tow,” the voice came again. “He won't defend hard.”
Maybe not. But Callum never gave anything up easily. He could have smoke pouring out of his brakes and he'd still try to block.
The next corner came fast. I nailed the exit, foot flat, activating DRS when we hit the zone down the straight. His rear wing glinted under the floodlights like bait. I took it. The car surgedforward, engine screaming as I caught the slipstream. He shifted inside, half-hearted. Defensive enough to make a point, but not enough to stop me.
I didn't flinch.
I braked late—toolate—threaded the car through the inside, and dove for the apex. Our tires were inches apart, one breath from disaster.
He saw me. I know he did, and he yielded. I took the corner. I took him.
By the time we hit the next straight, he was in my mirrors. I didn't breathe until my engineer came back on comms. “Position update: you're P4. Callum's P5.”
I exhaled, grinning into my helmet. My heart was still sprinting. I felt wired and weightless.
The chances of me snagging P3 were practically nonexistent, which meant no podium and no champagne. But I didn't care. I'd just overtaken a four-time world champion. For once, he was the one chasing me.
The daysbetweenJeddahand Miami passed in a blur. I spent most of the time at the vineyard, the familiar scents of lavender and aged oak grounding me in a way nothing else could.Étiennewas almost through recovery, and we'd shared a quiet evening on the terrace, sipping wine and talking about the pressures of the sport.
“You're too hard on yourself,” he said, voice steady. “P4inJeddahis so fucking impressive,Ray. You're already making waves.”
“I'm not you,” I replied softly, staring out at the fields. “And that's what they all want me to be.”
“You're better,” he replied. “You're creating your own legacy. Stop letting them dictate how you feel. This is your journey, not theirs. They're going to say and do whatever the hell they want because they're hiding behind a screen.”
The words stayed with me as I made the long trip to Miami, though the anxiety gnawing at me never let up—not where he was concerned. He was being kind while I harbored a secret I never wanted to tell him.
I nursed a cranberry vodka on the plane, staring out at the clouds and wondering when it'd allgotten so fucking complicated.
By the timewe landed in the United States, all I could think about was going out to enjoy the nightlife. I'd spent the whole season thus far worried about podium finishes, never giving myself a break or even a pat on the back.
I deserved some fun.
Maybe Callum would be out.
The thought landed uninvited. A flash of an image—him in some Miami rooftop bar, drink in hand, flashing that lazy, cocky grin that sent reporters and fans into a tizzy.
Would he go out? Would he take someone home?
My stomach churned with something ugly. Not jealousy. Definitely not.
I gritted my teeth. Who he fucked wasn't my business. It had never been my business. We'd only kissed once. Some harmless flirting.
